


A Story of Seven

by NelyafinweFeanorion



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Brothers, FeanorianWeek2017, Relationship(s), Siblings, postives and negatives, sons of feanor - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-20
Updated: 2017-03-26
Packaged: 2018-10-08 10:09:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10384305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NelyafinweFeanorion/pseuds/NelyafinweFeanorion
Summary: A story for Feanorian week. One chapter for each brother. Based on the seven deadly sins and the seven virtues.I am an unapologetic fan of the sons of Fëanor. I find them (and their parents and extended family) to be the most fascinating, complex and morally ambiguous characters in Tolkien's writings.I usually tend to view and write them in a positive, redemptive light. This was an attempt for me to write a darker or less appealing side of them. Of course, being me, I had to counter each negative I wrote with its opposing positive.





	1. Maedhros

**Maedhros** :

**Pride**

He could hear them. He could always hear them now. Perhaps he even sought them out.

It had embarrassed and flustered him, years ago, but as the time passed he had grown used to it. If he was going to be honest he was more than used to it. He looked forward to it. Savored it. Craved it. It didn't matter which voices or where--the palace, the playing fields, the market. They followed him wherever he went and he liked to hear them. Overhearing the praises for Fëanaro's eldest son. Praises for him.

"Here he comes!"  
"Look at the way that copper circlet sits in his hair."  
"No one has hair like that."  
"His mother does--it's just like hers."  
"Absolutely not! There is nothing like Nelyafinwë's hair."  
"Do you think it's a soft as it looks?"  
"I wanted to touch it when I danced with him but I couldn't summon up the courage."  
"How did you get him to dance with you? He's spent most of the night talking with Findekáno."  
"There could be no more perfect epesse for him than Maitimo--truly he is well-formed."  
"I wonder if all of him is so comely."

Maitimo could hear the laughter at that remark and he smiled. Little did they know how accurate his mother's name for him truly was. At least that's what he had heard from many, although Findekáno's assessment was really the only one that mattered.

He was leaning on a pillar, tucked into an alcove, behind the group discussing him so intently. The decorative plants hid him well. Hid him from all except for Findekáno, who knew to find him there.

 

 

**Humility**

He dropped to one knee, the crown tightly held between his left hand and the ungainly stump that was his right.

"It is yours by right, uncle, as the eldest heir of Finwë among our people," Maedhros said, looking up at Nolofinwe expectantly.

His uncle met his gaze, Nolofinwë's mind traveling back in time to the image of the tall, proud, comely nephew he remembered.

There was very little of that left in the Nelyo who knelt before him now--hair cropped short, dulled by the unremitting rays of the sun and so much more that was left unsaid. The scars on his face were still livid, standing out against the pallor of his skin. The stump at the end of his right arm never ceased to shock Nolofinwë, even after all this time.

"You are sure about this, Nelyo?" he whispered as he bent towards his nephew.

Maedhros closed his eyes at the old name. He had long ceased to be Nelyo, Maitimo, Russandol. Those were the names of the boy he once was, not the man that he had become, rising out of the torment of Thangorodrim to claim his life back.

He seemed to sway for a moment, Nolofinwë thought, as if from great weariness.

But then he opened his eyes and faced his uncle again, silver eyes strong and clear, his jaw set with determination.

"I have never been more sure of anything, my king," he said, bowing his head. "It is yours by right, by acclamation, and by the will of my heart."

He felt Nolofinwë's fingers touch his own as he took the crown from him and he breathed a sigh of relief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I use Maedhros Sindarin name here post Thangorodrim but Nolofinwë's Quenya one because in my headcanon he didn't adopt the Sindarin name immediately but only after he became High King.


	2. Maglor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Fëanorion Week 2017  
> Maglor: Envy and Kindness

**Maglor:**  
  
**Envy**  
  
He has heard the name from the Sindar that they have met.  
  
"Daeron of Doriath" they say.  
"The greatest singer in Beleriand."  
"His voice is from Eru himself."  
"You will no doubt weep from the beauty of his melodies."  
  
He has never met him yet Maglor somehow has come to hate this Daeron. He has been too overwhelmed for songs, for creating music. The shattering loss of Nelyo and the burden of kingship thrust upon him as a result effectively buried all his creativity deep within.  
  
But now Nelyo--Maedhros he corrects himself--has returned and Maglor has not felt such joy in years. The wellspring of songs trapped within him is ready to burst forth. He has the time, the inclination now, so he haltingly begins again. At first he only plays for his brothers, mainly Maedhros, who has missed his brother's voice and finds moments of solace in his singing. Slowly he expands his audience, requests coming from his uncle and his cousins--for songs of their youth, songs of Tirion and Alqualondë.  
  
He plays at their feasts, he plays for gatherings. But it seems the Sindar are unimpressed. Who is this Daeron that they pester him with?

  
The Mereth Aderthad is set, to celebrate the reuniting of the kindreds, at the bidding of the High King. It is in no small part due to Maedhros as well, for while he has been first unable and now unwilling to remain a king himself, he has a gift for making others kings.  
  
Maglor's uncle, High King Fingolfin, has requested that he perform songs of their Noldor heritage at this gathering of the Elvish tribes of Beleriand. The day before the feast Erestor tells him that a small contingent from Doriath has arrived, their famed singer among their company. Thingol has let these few come and has sent his singer to perform for the High King's feast.  
  
As his uncle tells him, it would be politically unwise to ignore the gesture. Maglor will share the stage with this Daeron, whether he cares to or not.  
  
He smiles at Fingolfin, agrees politely with the plan but seethes inside. Who is this Sindar who thinks to compete with him?  
  
As a courtesy, Fingolfin suggests the Doriath singer perform first. He is confident in Maglor's skill and has no wish to embarrass Daeron by having him perform after his talented nephew.  
  
So Maglor is alone, at the back of the stage, when Daeron steps out in front of the gathered Elves to perform. The notes are pure and strong, twisting in Maglor's stomach as he hears them. This is Daeron of Doriath then. His song soars, the notes ascending, turning, descending only to rise up again; the performance brings his audience to tears of sorrow, joy and awe.  
  
Maglor cannot help it--he is wiping tears from his own eyes as this bard sings the songs of Beleriand. He must admit he is a master of his craft, the best he has ever heard. The heaviness in his gut changes to a darker emotion. He must perform after this masterpiece--it will now be he who will appear to be lacking. He is envious of this singer he has never met, a bard who has been able to devote his life exclusively to song.  
  
Daeron never had to learn the forge. Daeron never had to learn to fight. Daeron never had to leave his home, his love, his wife, to follow in the vengeful steps of his father. He did not have to set his dreams aside, to do the bidding of others, time and time again. He has had every opportunity, every benefit, all the things that Maglor doesn't have, couldn't have, never will have.  
  
The envy all but consumes him as he steps upon the stage.  
  
  
  
**Kindess**  
  
There is still tumult all around them, the fading sounds of battle--metal on metal, anguished cries and shouts of anger. They are not the center of it anymore, their men are now the ones sweeping through the ruined town, searching in vain, for Maedhros has told him of Elwing's leap into the sea with the jewel clutched to her. They will find nothing in their search.  
  
Maglor is weary. Weary not only in body but in spirit. He looks at Maedhros--scarred, pale, the wretched weight of that hateful Oath bowing his shoulders down yet again. This was not how he had envisioned this. But when had anything they attempted gone according to plan? Had they not learned that lesson from their doom yet? He could hear the echo of the words still.  
  
_"To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well;"_  
  
His brother knew those words as well, yet time after time he put his hope in plans and actions, as if he could somehow overcome that fate. He was proven wrong every time, this occasion no different than the others.  
  
Maedhros would blame himself again. As he had with the Nirnaeth, with Doriath, with the lost twins, with every other setback, defeat or death that had come to them. And now they had another set of twins to mourn.  
  
He could see their bodies, together in death as they had been in life, the color of their hair still bright against the gloom around them. Maedhros stood vigil by them; he had not stirred since they had been found and brought here out of the fray.  
  
It was over. Once again they had lost so much and gained nothing for their efforts.  
  
"Maglor." Erestor's voice pulled him out of his thoughts.  
  
"What is it, Erestor?"  
  
"We've found something. You must come with me," Erestor said.  
  
"There's nothing to find, Erestor. She took it with her. There is no Silmaril in Sirion now," Maglor met the eyes of their companion bleakly. He straightened at the sight of Erestor's face. He was agitated, eyes darting around the clearing, clearly ill at ease. "What is it that you've found?" Maglor asked, his voice gone sharp.  
  
"Two boys. I think they are Elwing's twin sons. I cannot get a word out of them. I have men guarding them. You must come with me."  
  
"Why do you tell me this and not Maedhros?" Maglor asked. Erestor was his brother's man, his companion and trusted counselor all the years at Himring.  
  
"Look at him!" Erestor hissed. "He bears the burden of this on himself yet again. He mourns your brothers, he still mourns the lost twins of Doriath. Have you any idea how he will respond to the sight of these twins, that you and he have orphaned today?" Erestor leaned closer. "I was with him when this happened before, Maglor, when your brothers orphaned those twins in Doriath. You were not in the forest at his side when he searched for the lost sons of Dior. Their fate haunts him still. I do not need him to face another set of parentless twins right now, to decide their fate, not as his own twin brothers lie dead before him."  
  
"They were my brothers too," Maglor snapped.  
  
"You think I do not know that?" Erestor said. "But you were not the one searching Doriath for days on end, as he was. You were not the one who caused their mother to leap to her death, leaving them behind, as he was. I understand your pain but can you just shut up for a moment and come with me? Can you not spare him this at least?"  
  
Maglor darted a glance at Maedhros, still leaning on his sword, his head bowed as he stood next to the bodies of the Ambarussa. "I will come."  
  
They were huddled together, arms around each other and eyes fearfully taking in the strange guards around them. There was little doubt these were the children of Elwing. They had the raven black hair and grey eyes that he remembered from Dior. Twins were rare enough among their people--it was unlikely these could be any other children.  
  
He stepped closer, schooling his face to a calm and pleasant demeanor, bending down to speak to them. "Hello, little ones."  
  
They clutched each other tighter at being addressed. He realized he was still in his armor, stained with the blood of battle. He must be a terrifying sight. He smoothed his voice even further as he spoke to them again. "Would you tell me your names? Is there someone who was with you?"  
  
"Naneth said not to talk to anyone," one whispered.  
  
"Elrond!" the other hissed at his brother. "You musn't talk to him. She told us not to!"  
  
"But she's not here. Ioneth's not here. There's no one here but them--these _golodh_ ," the one named Elrond said.  
  
"I am sorry you are alone," Maglor said. "Who is Ioneth? Is that your mother?" Perhaps these weren't Elwing's sons. That would make it so much easier, he thought.  
  
The other one spoke, disdain evident in his voice, even though it trembled. "Ioneth is not our mother. She is our caretaker, when Mother is not around."  
  
"And your mother?" Maglor encouraged.  
  
"She's gone," Elrond said.  
  
"Hush, Elrond!" the other one said, fiercely, leaning back now to glare at his twin.  
  
"If you will not tell me, will you let me guess?" Maglor asked, squatting down at their level now. Two pairs of grey eyes turned to him. "Might your mother be Elwing?" He knew the answer by their faces. His heart sank. These were her twins then.  
  
His heart ached as he thought of the fear and despair that must have overwhelmed her--to hide her sons away, leave them in the care of another, that made throwing herself into the sea a better option than facing capture by his brother. What had they become, he thought (not for the first time), to make others fear and despise them so?  
  
Best not dwell on that. He would come to despair himself if he thought on it long enough.  
  
What to do with these two? They could not leave them here. The city was in disarray, no way to discern who could safeguard these children. There was no one from Sirion they could trust or who would trust them in turn.  
  
Maglor had heard rumor of Cirdan, marching from the Havens, to aid Sirion's defenses. He would arrive far too late. They did not dare stay until those reinforcements arrived--their own army was depleted by this battle and it would not do to engage with Cirdan's as well. They had no direct quarrel with the Elves of the Havens. Until now, he realized. No, best for them to be gone before Cirdan arrived.  
  
What to do? It made sense for the children to go to Cirdan and the safety of the Havens but there was no way to assure that happened. Maglor felt the twins' eyes on him as he struggled to decide what to do.  
  
Leave them here? Too much death and unrest. No reliable guardian. Not a viable alternative.  
  
Send them to Cirdan? Who to trust for that mission? There might be some among them who would think to hold them for ransom. He could only trust himself, his brother or Erestor and none of them could put themselves in such a confrontation with Cirdan. So that was not an option either.  
  
_Leave them as you found them,_ a voice whispered in his head. They were not his concern. Let them fend for themselves. Their own mother had left them and he was no kin of theirs. Could he not do the same?  
  
He could not and would not. There was no other option. He would take the twins with him. They would be safe and protected. Few among their men had as much experience taking care of children as he and Maedhros did. They could send word to Cirdan and arrange to put the children in his care at a later time. For now, they were his responsibility. He and Maedhros had inadvertently brought this fate on them. It was their duty to take them from this carnage and keep them safe.  
  
He looked at the boys again and reached out to gently stroke the silken black hair on Elrond's head. "You will be looked after, that I promise you. My brother and I had many younger siblings. Neither of us have forgotten how to care for children. I give you my word you will be safe and I do not give my word lightly."  
  
He looked behind him to meet Erestor's eyes. "We will take the boys with us. That which we sought is not here anymore. We must be far away before Cirdan and his men arrive. We depart as soon as you have gathered our troops."  
  
He motioned to the boys to stand and took off his cloak to wrap it around them even though he didn't think they were just shivering from the cold. They walked together back to where his brother stood, head bowed still.  
  
"Maedhros."  
  
Silver eyes met his and he heard his brother's sharp intake of breath at the sight of the twins.

  
"Maedhros, these are Elwing's boys. I think a battle ground is a poor place for them so they will be coming with us." His voice was firm and steady. He put a hand on each of the twins' shoulders. "This is Elrond. And this is . . ." He had not asked the other twin's name, he realized.  
  
"It's Elros," said a small voice.  
  
"Elrond, why must you speak to them??" the other one exclaimed. Maglor felt his stomach clench. How much they sounded like Ambarussa when they were this age, bickering like this.  
  
His own brother was staring at them wide-eyed. "Elwing's sons?" he breathed. "You do them no kindness by bringing them with us, Maglor. We are no fit guardians for children."  
  
"I think you are wrong, Maedhros. I think we are the only ones who can be."


	3. Celegorm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today has been a crazy day so sorry this is being posted so late. Poor Caranthir must be fuming because I've neglected doing anything for his day tomorrow since I've been so absorbed with Celegorm today.

**Celegorm** :

**Lust**

They had chanced upon her in the woods, not far from the Guarded Plain. Huan became aware of Lúthien first and he brought her to Celegorm, shrouded in her shadowy cloak. He gazed upon her in that hidden form and at her request told her his name, his lineage and his eternal hatred for Morgoth, as his brother Curufin stood beside him.

She cast off her cloak at his words and her beauty shone forth unrestrained. Celegorm felt his chest constrict at the sight of her. To him none could surpass the beauty of his lost cousin Aredhel, but as he gazed upon Luthien a fire grew in his heart, as scorching as what he had felt so long ago in Tirion and had denied himself for so many centuries.

He collected himself and spoke fair words in answer to Lúthien's plea for assistance, assuring her that he and Curufin would bring her safely to Nargothrond and aid her in her time of need. He noted the sidelong looks his brother gave him, that secret smile that Curufin wore making Celegorm uneasy. He shook off the sensation, his focus inexorably returning to Lúthien.

He lifted her to his horse and settled himself behind her, arms loosely clasped around her waist to keep her steady on the mount, or so he told himself. He avoided meeting his brother's gaze. With Lúthien in front of him, Curufin and Huan at his sides, he found the path to take them back to the caves of Nargothrond.

The scent of her hair drifted over him as he rode, and he fought the distraction of it, striving to keep his attention on the path ahead. It was to no avail; tendrils of it came free of her braids and gently caressed his face, his skin on fire wherever it touched him.

She leaned back against him now, as the horse's pace increased and the physical contact stirred sensations buried for so long. The rhythmic undulation of the stallion beneath him brought them into even closer proximity with every step. There was a friction from that contact-each stride only increased his arousal.

When had he last felt this way? A memory of Aredhel, in the days of their youth in Tirion, came to him. He pushed it away. She was gone. She was gone from him-and now his accursed Oath would keep them apart forever-she in Mandos' Halls already and he doomed to the Everlasting Dark, if the Oath was not fulfilled.

His face darkened as he thought on the one seated before him. What chance was there that Beren and Finrod's quest would succeed? Would they lay claim to a Silmaril and give it as a bride gift to her father? There had been no word since they had set out. She sought them and craved Celegorm and Curufin's aid to do so. It did not bode well for the mortal or Nargothrond's golden King.

But what if he kept her to himself? What if he laid claim to her? What would her father give to get her back? Would he give them that which Celegorm desired even more than her?

His arms tightened around her waist, bringing her just a little closer, holding her just a little more securely to him. The sensation of her body against his inflamed him, the friction at his groin almost painful now.

He glanced at Curufin but he seemed focused on the path and did not spare him a look. It was better that way. He did not need to see that knowing smirk on his brother's face. This was his plan, his desire. He need not share his thoughts yet.

His faithful Huan ran alongside him. Was it his imagination or did Huan regard him with a censorious look? It was not usual for his companion to do so; they were linked in heart and mind for so many centuries now. He frowned at Huan and grew ill at ease as the hound's displeasure did not change but only deepened. Celegorm shook his head. He would not be gainsaid by him.

As they neared the gates of Nargothrond Lúthien raised her voice in song and he was lost. His skin grew hot, each point of contact with her body increasing the fire within him. His clothes felt rough, too constricting, stifling him. He wanted her. He wanted her skin on his, to bury his face in that hair, to have her completely.

Desire, lust, call it by any name. He wanted nothing more at this moment than to make her his.

___________________________________________________

 

**Chastity**

Even in his earliest memories Tyelkormo remembered the woods calling to him. He would reach out from his crib to the birds that sang on his windowsill, trying in vain to mimic their song. When he first learned to walk his favorite spot was his mother's garden; it teemed with life and he could hear an echo of a song as he walked among the plants. Later, when the confines of the house overwhelmed him, he would take to the trees to find his peace.

The woods were always his escape. The forge stifled him, confined him as a bird in a cage. His mother's studio was no better; the stone too cold and still, no spark of life in it. He felt his true self in the forest. He could hear notes from the Song of Creation in the cascading streams, the rustling tree leaves, the sounds of the wildlife that let him approach them so closely.

It was hard to be the one after Nelyo and Káno. Their perfection was unattainable, their interests so much more pleasing to his parents. Tyelkormo was grace and stillness on the hunt but crude and clumsy with the tools of their choice.

His mother would find him in the trees after his inevitable clashes with his father, when he was unable to adequately explain to Fëanaro why the forge work was unfinished, why he could not make the metal do his bidding. His arrows flew straight and true, no beast escaped his traps, the food he caught and foraged feeding them all, but those were skills of little merit in his family.

The only one who understood and shared this passion for the wilderness was his cousin Irisse. Together they would roam the forests, learning from each other and from the living world around them. They soon discovered that they shared a passion for more than simply the woods they loved so well. It was something that they always kept secret, both aware of how their fathers would react if they knew the truth.

He would lay by the river, side by side with Irisse, and they would dream of what their hearts desired, knowing it was only words. That reality would never be for them. It made him feel that much lonelier when she was not with him, knowing their time together was only transient and not the lifetime he wished for. It was unfair to keep her tethered to him this way, as he told her time and time again. They had no future with each other, none that their family or convention would allow them.

He met the Vala Oromë after a particularly vehement argument with his father. He had stormed away from the house, pausing only to tell his mother he would be gone for a few days and to beg her not to send his brothers after him this time. He traveled to a clearing that he knew well and made his solitary camp. He knew the Hunter roamed these woods but had not chanced upon him before. Until this time, when Oromë found him.

Among Oromë and his Hunters Tyelkormo wasn't awkward or ungainly. He was acknowledged for his skills, young though he was. He spent more time away from Tirion, away from his family; learning from Oromë the ways of the wood, the voices of the trees, the languages of the animals. It felt more like home than anywhere he had ever been.

The Hunters of Oromë were not like the acolytes of the other Valar. Aulë took apprentices, mentored them but then they left him to follow their own path. But the Hunters took a vow that bound them to Oromë and to each other in a far deeper way.

He was humbled when the summons came, with the Vala's offer for him to join his Hunters. He desired it with all his heart but still he wrestled with the decision, late at night alone in his room.

It would require sacrifice. It would require loyalty. It would require him to make a choice. A choice that would affect not only him. The Hunters of Oromë pledged their lives to the Valar, their loyalty to Oromë, but also their chastity. They took no husbands, took no wives. Their love was given to the world around them, their bond with nature not with another. If he joined the Hunters he must willingly give up Irisse, forever.

There was little he had wanted more than to join the Hunters but the thought of Irisse gave him pause and made him doubt himself. If they were free to join together he would gladly decline Oromë's summons he realized. But they were not free and with his hesitation he was holding her back from a future that was far better than the one he offered her. She deserved more than forest trysts and a forever hidden love.

He could not love another, that he knew. He could not have Irisse, not the way they wanted to be together. His chastity was a small price to pay for the chance to give her the life she deserved, with someone who could love her openly, give her freely what he could not.

He made his decision. It was better for them both this way.

He bowed before the Vala and spoke the words of the Vow. His blood sizzled in the flames as it dripped from the cut along his palm. He bound himself to Oromë, to the Hunters, to Huan. This was where he belonged, who he belonged with, the place where he felt most himself.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've deviated from canon on Irisse here and I've patterned the Hunters of the followers of Artemis from Greek mythology. The parallels made sense to me.


	4. Caranthir

**Caranthir** :

**Greed**

He had always been like this. It was challenging, being the middle child, in this family. It was challenging being any child in this family, he reminded himself, but his role as the fourth had been frustrating more often than not.

It wasn't just his older brothers' worn out clothing; it was the books-Nelyo used to write in the margins, underline the text, put his thoughts down at the end of the chapters. Caranthir couldn't read a storybook, a historical text, a treatise on language, without having Nelyo's thoughts and opinions forced on him. He treasured having a new book, one of his own-the pages fresh and clean, none of Nelyo's precise writing or Kano's dreamy sketches or Tyelko's grimy fingerprints marring it. A book that was his.

Until the other three came along and then nothing he had was safe, least of all from the twins.

It was his toys as well. More cast-offs from his brothers, used and worn. Or battered to bits and not working anymore at all, if they were Tyelko's. The wondrous mechanical toys his father made for each of them were treasures. He had safeguarded his, wary of the younger ones by then, so it was a white-hot rage that overcame him when he found Curvo dismantling his favorite one day 'just to see how it worked.' His father had laughed at Curvo's audacity and easily put the toy to rights but that just made him angrier. It was his toy. Let Curvo take his own apart.

It was his skills as well, or lack of them, he amended, that singled him out. He didn't have Nelyo's way with words, Kano's skill with music, Tyelko's utility at providing for their table. He just had his way of keeping track of things, that seemed to drive his family to distraction rather than be seen as useful.

Was it wrong to keep a running tally of who was supposed to do the washing up? It wouldn't be fair if they didn't track it. Wasn't he supposed to note how much coin Tyelko borrowed from him-how was he supposed to get it back if he didn't know the exact amount?

Even now, how could they show such little interest in how much it cost to garrison a fort, transport grain from Thargelion to Himring, arm these men who kept the trade routes clear?

He couldn't help it. Numbers, patterns, schedules, organizing things fascinated him. He was the one who had laid out his mother's garden every year, keeping track of the orderly rows, the various packets of seeds saved from the year before, the yield histories and expected production.

He was the one who now organized their supplies, their food sources, their trade with the Green Elves and the Dwarves of Belegost. He knew exactly how much wood he needed to keep his halls warm in winter, how many bushels of grain Himring utilized in a year, how many heads of cattle, herds of sheep and flocks of fowl the Edain raised for him each year.

He had done well in Thargelion. The land was rich, the location ideal. He controlled the road to Nogrod and Belogost, had the most advantageous trade agreements with the Dwarves and the Edain. He had created that. He had made it a success. Not his brothers. Did they really expect him to just give his hard work away?

"You cannot seriously expect me to pay that much, Caranthir," Maedhros said again, frowning at him from across the table.

"You want grain. I have grain. It is a fair price," Caranthir answered, his face impassive.

"I am your brother. This is grain to keep our people fed so we can man the fortresses that keep your lands safe. Spare me your transport fees and road taxes!" Maedhros said, an edge of frustration in his voice now.

"It would not be fair to treat you differently than my other customers."

"He's not one of your other customers, you miserly shit," Celegorm growled. "He's your brother and your general and the one that's letting your sorry ass sit in comfort in Thargelion while the rest of us struggle to keep our men fed and our lands safe."

"I believe it was Maedhros who suggested I take Thargelion?" Caranthir answered.

"Because you proved the best at organizing supplies and working out trade agreements! Why else do you think you got that choice little spot? Your job is to keep our armies going. Not make a profit off of all of us. And what does Maedhros get in return for letting you have the best of it all-you gouging him on costs and prattling on about taxes and transport fees." Celegorm smacked the table with his hand. "Same as always, with you."

"Let it go, Celegorm," Maedhros said wearily. "I will pay your damn fees, brother. Seems I have no better option."

______________________________________________________

 

**Charity**

He had first seen her in the midst of a raging battle.

Word had come to him that Orcs roamed his lands, raids and stealthy crossings not unexpected, but this time they had crossed into the southern woods of Thargelion and a large force had besieged the dwellings of the Edain there. Caranthir had gathered his host and marched to their aid.

They had done their best, he could see that. Dead Orcs filled the valley and the remnant of Haldad's people huddled behind the failing stockade. Except for a few who stood their ground against the crazed horde of Orcs and she was among them.

He came down from the north and swept the Orcs away, to the river and their deaths. Caranthir returned to survey the desolation of the settlement and to meet with the survivors, once the Orcs were destroyed.

They met before the ruined stockade, her clothes still covered with the blood of battle. "You have my thanks, Lord Caranthir, for your timely arrival. Had you not come we all would have been lost, I fear." She inclined her head slightly before looking up at him again, a curious look on her face.

"I am no lord, my lady. Caranthir is fine. I wish word had come sooner of your plight-I fear your losses are many."

Her face hardened. "I have lost my father and my brother this day. This is all that is left of the Haladin and I am by rights their leader now."

"I can give you shelter at my fortress-you and all your people." He looked around at the ruined dwelings, battered stockade and bodies of the dead. "This is no fit home for your people anymore."

"I am grateful for the offer, my lord, but we are not ones to stay within a fortress' confines," Haleth answered.

"Come but for a little while, my lady, to let my healers care for your injured and provide some food and shelter for your warriors and their families," Caranthir offered. "And it is Caranthir, not lord."

She tilted her head to the side as she looked at him, a thoughtful expression on her face. "I will gladly have the respite, for our wounded are many and our homes destroyed." She gave him a small smile. "And I am Haleth, Caranthir, not my lady. I thank you for your offer."

Haleth brought her people to the safety of his halls. As their days in his fortress passed he found numerous reasons to meet with her; strategic discussions on the southern reaches of his lands, careful inquiries as to the state of the survivors, tentative questions as to what her plans were to be. And sometimes he sought her company for no reason at all.

Two weeks into their stay he came to her. "I have been thinking on your people," he said, as they walked together on the battlements of the fortress. "The southern reaches are not safe anymore. It will be hard to rebuild your settlements with the threat that lingers over those lands. I have increased the border guard but I feel it will not be safe for habitation."

"I have thought the same," Haleth said, but stopped as she realized he had not finished.

"Your father and your people have been good stewards of the land and valiant in their defense of it. The lands further north are closer to us here and you would have the protection of my people." Caranthir paused and looked at her intently. "The lands would be your own-I give them to you freely. You have more than earned them with your sacrifice."

"Freely, Caranthir?" Haleth asked. "You mean for us to work the land for you, do you not? In recompense for the use of it?"

He shook his head. "I said freely. It is for you and your people, with no conditions, taxes or expectations otherwise. They will be your lands, Haleth. A home for you and the Haladin who follow you, with whatever protection I can provide."

She reached out and touched his hand lightly. "You do me a great honor, Caranthir." She stepped back. "But everything comes with a price, I have learned."

"Not this. The lands I give to you, in honor of your valor and the hardship your people survived. My protection I give because I choose to do so. There is no debt between us."

"You are generous. But my thought is to go west, leave these shadowy mountains and seek out our kin in Estolad," she said.

"I cannot change your mind? Estolad is a fair realm but it is closer to the Dark One's fortress than the lands I speak of. You may find yourselves besieged again," Caranthir said.

"There are many of our people who dwell there still. The realm of Doriath is not far and that is reckoned safe by all accounts." Haleth frowned at him and reached out for his hand again. "I do not take your offer lightly, Caranthir. But my people are proud and independent and I am unwilling to be ruled by any, other than myself. It is best if I go to Estolad and leave your lands."

"I do not desire to rule you or your people," Caranthir said. "I have only your safety and prosperity in mind."

"You are most generous, as I said. But even a gift or token of charity must be repaid and I am not willing to bow to or submit to any Edain or Eldar." She smiled at him. "And I am not willing to let you give so freely without being able to provide something in return. It is better this way, I think."

He thought of her often in the years that passed. He traveled near her lands on his rare visits to Himring but when he inquired of her he learned that she and her people had moved on and dwelt now on the far side of the great forest, in Brethil.

His brothers continued to harrass him for his ways, his careful accounting of debts and costs, his meticulous tallying of the money owed him. None of them ever realized quite how much he had been willing to give, to the right person.


	5. Curufin

**Curufin** :

**Anger**

His anger was not the slow burn to white-hot rage of Maedhros. It was not the silent seething of Maglor. He did not share Celegorm's physicality with his emotions--he had never punched a wall or kicked down a door in rage--such a waste of energy. Curufin did not broadcast his anger, as Caranthir did with his flushed face and growling words.

No, Curufin's anger was a cold thing; almost an absence of emotion that hid behind cutting words and a still expression. His brothers knew well to avoid him when he looked that way.

He had many masks, schooling his features to avoid detection, something he had learned from observing the unrefined, unrestrained and transparent sentiments of both Celegorm and Caranthir. It did not do to have others read you too easily.

No one was having any difficulty reading him now. He was behaving so completely out of character that it had caused both Celegorm and Caranthir to lapse into an uncanny silence of their own.

Curufin could hear his own voice shouting, feel the heat rising in his face, see his hand slamming down on the table in front of Maedhros. He could not stop himself, could not stem the torrent of words spilling out of him, his usual crisp efficiency of speech completely abandoning him for sheer, incoherent rage.

It didn't help that Maedhros was observing him with a cool detachment that enraged him further.

He paused to take a breath, sweeping his scorching gaze across his gathered brothers. "Have you nothing to say? None of you? You are simply going to sit there and let him give our legacy away? To him?"

"You seem to be speaking enough for everyone, Curvo," Celegorm said, leaning against the wall, his eyes darting from Maedhros to Curufin, the lines of tension visible in his body even as his voice strived to be steady. Huan whined at his side, uncomfortable at the surging emotions in the room. Celegorm's hand found his head and buried itself in his fur, imperceptibly relaxing as he did so.

Amras looked down at the table, withdrawing into himself as he usually did when conflict flared between his siblings. It was during moments like this that he felt his twin's loss most acutely.

Caranthir's face was flushed as usual, but for once he stood by and let Curufin's rant go unchallenged. He had said his piece to Maedhros, both in private and here in the presence of their brothers. He knew by the look on his eldest brother's face that his words were futile now. Maedhros had never looked more like Father than he did in this moment. He let his shoulders slump. He would argue no more.

It seemed that Curufin had only paused for breath. He leveled a piercing look of sheer disdain at the lot of them. "That's it then? You are giving up arguing because it's Maedhros? He does not get to decide this on his own." He turned to face his eldest brother. "It seems your mind suffered as much damage as your body during your years of captivity, Maedhros, for you to think this is in any way a reasonable decision. It would have been better for Maglor to stay as King; unsuited as he is, he is still better than Nolofinwe. You are a disgrace to the house of Feanor." His voice, usually so controlled, revealed all his bitterness, his words as sharp as the sword he carried.

If he expected his oldest brother to retort he was sorely disappointed. He was shoved up against a wall, a hand clenched in the fabric of his tunic as he looked in surprise at the unexpected face of Maglor, grey eyes flaming with a rage of his own. "You will hold your tongue Curufin or I shall make you pay for your words. How dare you insult your High King in this manner? Do you think yourself better suited to the role? We would all go down in flames if anyone gave you that kind of power."

He shoved Maglor away. "He is no High King of mine. Not anymore. The High King of the Noldor does not give his kingship away. Father and Grandfather died as Kings of the Noldor. He is the rightful heir and if he is too broken and weak to do it then any of us can step up to take his place. Not this jumped up Vanyar half-breed."

Maedhros continued to regard him with that cool, detached gaze. "You forget yourself, Curufin. I may be giving up the Kingship to Nolofinwë but I haven't given it up yet. You speak treason and I suggest you watch your words before you go too far even for me."

"I forget nothing!" Curufin bellowed, stalking over to Maedhros again. "I have not forgotten how our King was killed by Morgoth, how our father was beset by Balrogs. They died as Kings of their people and now you shirk your duty and your honor and betray their sacrifice if you give their legacy away." He placed his hands on the table and leaned down towards Maedhros. "You are the one who has forgotten himself."

"I think not." Maedhros said lightly, his silver eyes glinting with a fierceness that gave Curufin pause. "I have had quite a long time to reflect on this, you see." The smile Maedhros gave his brother was little more than the baring of his teeth. "You have forgotten the most important facts, Curvo. Grandfather made Nolofinwë his regent when he gave up the crown. Not me. Nolofinwe. His second son. He never rescinded it. Is that not direct proof of the succession?" He raised his eyebrow as he regarded his younger brother. "And you conveniently seem to forget we serve a different master. The Oath rules us. That renders every one of us unfit to rule any but ourselves."

Curufin's incoherent cry of rage was answer enough. Even he had no words to argue now.

_______________________________________________________________

**Patience**

At first it was helping the small hands tentatively trace the Tengwar script over and over on the parchment. Then it was gently guiding the slender fingers as they picked apart the gears, watching as his son put the pieces back together unaided, the smile of success making Tyelpe's face glow.

Now Telperinquar was finally old enough to learn the secrets of the forge. Curufinwë had chosen this time carefully, his wife away visiting her family and his father off on one of his many trips.

He knew Tyelpe was ready. He had seen how the boy watched him as he worked, had seen the gleam of understanding in Tyelpe's eyes. He knew his wife worried for his safety but how could he not be safe with him?

He had planned for his father to be away; Curufinwë would not have it otherwise, despite how disloyal to Feanaro that might seem. He had his own memories of his first time in the forge. He wanted Tyelpe to love the work, not be overwhelmed with worry and anxiety at pleasing his grandfather. It had come so easily to him but he had seen how much of a struggle it was for Tyelko and Moryo. Father's patience was a transient thing at best. It would not do for Tyelpe to be exposed to that so soon.

He started with the basics, walking Tyelpe around the forge and pointing out each tool, each part, the inner workings of all the foundations for the task. He knew his son had picked up some of this from watching him but if he was to learn he needed to learn it properly.

Each tool was placed in Tyelpe's hand, the correct grip demonstrated, discussed, repeated, adjusted. He watched as his son struck the flame to light the forge, murmuring encouraging words as he did. He reminded him to use the bellows when Tyelpe's flame began to falter. Each step discussed, demonstrated, repeated, questioned and then repeated again, until the motions came more smoothly to those hands that were still too soft to withstand a full day's work.

They returned the next day and the next, Tyelpe's confidence increasing with the repetition. Curufinwë started each lesson like the first one, running through the tools, the steps, the safety precautions, before allowing Tyelpe to begin the actual work. Each motion repeated time and time again, until Tyelpe's strokes were sure and even, the rhythm as steady as his heartbeat.

At the end of the week he looked with pride at the dagger his son had forged on his own and then he started once again reciting the litany of steps they needed to go through to shut the forge down for the day, Tyelpe repeating the words to himself as he completed each task.  
Tomorrow they would do it again.

 


	6. Amrod

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feanorian Week Day 6: Amrod

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> note: I had always thought of sloth as laziness, but the definition of sloth in the context of the deadly sins has more to do with apathy and indifference-more of a lack of feeling, a form of alienation and withdrawal. I think that definition works better in this context

**Amrod** :

 **Sloth** :

 

He had never been a morning person. It was challenging not being a morning person in the house of Fëanor. His father and his brothers all rose early and the house was loud and boisterous long before Pityo was ready to leave his comfortable bed. But he had learned that he could get away with it.

Nelyo, almost always the first one up, would start breakfast even if it wasn't his turn to cook. Macalaurë would usually help his older brother, even if he wasn't on Moryo's meticulous duty list for the day. Tyelko, always impatient, would either fend for himself or take what Nelyo made, rather than wait. Moryo would usually find the list and if Pityo was on breakfast duty his older brother would march up to his room and deliver a blistering lecture on responsibility and diligence while Pityo solemnly nodded his head and apologized from the comfort of his bed, while one of the others actually made breakfast. It worked almost every time.

Telvo would just cover for him, as he always did.

It didn't work on the mornings he was supposed to accompany Tyelko on a hunt. His rambunctious brother would appear in his room, rousing him with his booming voice. There was never any point in ignoring Tyelko-he only got louder if you did.

He never dared to sleep late on the mornings he was due to join his father in the forge. Pityo had done that once and had vowed never to let it happen again. It had been unpleasant, to say the least.

He first started having trouble sleeping when the tension between his father and his uncle Nolofinwe escalated to the point that it was permeating all of their lives. There was a shadow hanging over them that he alone could sense, something lurking that he could not see. His brothers waved off his concerns, immersing themselves in their lives and interests in ways he could not. His mother confided that she felt it too, the tension that seemed to taint the air around them.

Fëanaro's disastrous confrontation with his brother resulted in his banishment and although Pityo initially thought perhaps this was the impending shadow he had sensed, the feeling did not go away. It only intensified in Formenos, isolated as they were there. He felt his mother's absence all the more. She had visions, feelings, portents of her own-she would understand what he sensed.

He missed his cousins too, especially Artanis. She could always sense his mood, much as his twin brother did, but she had a much different way of approaching him than Telvo did. He wished he could visit her, but Formenos was much too far away from Tirion, let alone what his father would say if he mentioned it. Or her.

But she could calm his troubled mind as no other could, not even Telvo. She didn't speak of it much but he knew she had visions of her own and could read far more from others than they thought. It made her uncomfortable, to know so much without asking. But Pityo was relieved when she did-it made it so much easier that she just knew and then he didn't even have to talk about it. He felt the loss of her calming mind touch almost as much as he missed his mother's.

He stumbled through the days at Formenos, his few hours of sleep at night making him lethargic during the day. He went through the motions, in the house, in the field, in the forge. He couldn't bring himself to join in the debates the family had each night, the elaborate wordplay of his father and his brothers wearying him.

Was it true, as father said, that the Valar had tricked them? Was this existence all just an illusion to keep them docile and obedient? It made sense when father said it but he had seen how Oromë was with Tyelko, how Aulë was with Father even. Was that benevolence just for show? They had brought their people from the vast darkness, to a place of safety, of beauty, of learning. What could be sinister about that?

He wasn't sure he was ever going to sleep again after Grandfather's death. He saw visions of it if he did drift off, visions that woke him and left him shaking for hours after. He spoke little, finding it hard to muster up the energy for words. The fear that had come with the attack on Formenos only grew as his father's rage intensified, focusing on the loss of Finwe, those jewels that had been stolen from him, and his freedom of choice, if his rants against the Valar were to be believed.

What good were the Valar anyway, he wondered. They had brought them here for safety yet even they, with all their powers, could not keep them safe, could not even control one of their own. Was he to believe what they said, of the dangers and the wildness of the lands beyond the sea, the lands his father was determined to seek out? He didn't know who or what to believe anymore.

He followed Telvo, as he always did, to the square where the Noldor gathered to hear his father speak. He followed his brothers, as they took up their swords and swore the Oath, his heart going cold as he repeated the words. He followed his father and the masses of the Noldor as they left all they knew behind, to forge their path across the sea.

A sea stained red with blood. He wasn't sure if he killed any Teleri. He remembered Telvo grabbing him, shouting in his face that he needed to defend himself, that their lives were at stake. He watched himself pull his sword out, saw the torchlight glimmer on its edge, saw the red that stained it by the end, although he had no recollection of how it had gotten there. He must have killed someone, for the blood to be there.

He came face to face with Artanis, her brothers holding her back as she spat her rage at his father. His cousins had fought for the Teleri, it seemed. She turned to look at him as he stared at her, feeling the weight of his gaze. Her eyes took in his bloodstained sword and a coldness he had never expected to see from her swept over him. He felt hollow, empty, as she turned her face away. So he had lost her too.

Telvo pushed him onto the ship, to their shared room below decks. It seemed the ships were theirs and his father was determined to sail this night.

They reached the other shore, the ships put to rest by the sandy beach. He had not slept on the voyage, the hatred in his cousin's eyes still haunting him. He sat by the fire, eating the food Nelyo passed to him mechanically, looking back across the water at what they had left behind.

His eyes grew heavy. His brothers seemed to be in some debate with Father. He could not trouble himself to listen. Hadn't there been enough strife? He wondered when the ships would sail back, to bring the host of Nolofinwe to join them.

Could he sail back on one of those ships, forsake this Oath, this quest for the unattainable vengeance his father sought? He wanted nothing more. He wanted to see his mother again. He wanted this shadow to be gone from him.

He touched Telvo on the shoulder. "I'm going for a walk down to the ships," he said.

"Be careful and do not stray too far," Telvo said. "You do not have anything to say about Father's plan?" his brother eyed him curiously.

He had not heard Father's plans or what they were debating. It did not matter. "When have my words ever swayed him one way or another?" he replied as he turned to walk down to the shore.

He reached the ship that had carried him over and made to board.

"All must stay ashore," the guard at the bottom of the gangplank told him.

"I've just come to fetch my bedroll," he said, the smile on his lips masking the turmoil within him as he spoke. "I've no interest in sleeping on the ground. It will just take me a minute." The guard nodded his assent and Pityo made his way to the cabin.

He sat on the bed, his head in his hands. Father was bound to send the ships back in the morning for Nolofinwe. There was no reason he couldn't go-if questioned he could just say he wanted to do his part-it would be better than just waiting on the shore. PItyo was sure he could slip away once he reached the other side.

He had sworn the Oath though. It's weight pressed down on him. Would he be banished to the Everlasting Dark? If he came to Taniquetil, begged forgiveness from Manwe, would he still be subject to it? He didn't know. It made his head hurt even more.

He curled on his side on the bed and closed his eyes. How many days had it been since he had last slept? Without even realizing he slowly drifted off to sleep.

It was warm. He threw off his covers and burrowed deeper into the pillow. It was brighter now. He closed his eyes again. He must have slept through the night, he thought, his tired mind forgetting that there was no daylight now that the Trees were no more.

He wasn't ready to wake up. He had never been a morning person. He would rouse himself once the ship was at sea, wander up on deck and make his presence known. By then it would be too late for Father to stop him, to make him turn back.

Now all he wanted to do was sleep. He breathed in the salty, smoky air and clutched the pillow to him, sinking into the warm softness, the creaking and crackling sounds around him lulling him back to a deep, dreamless slumber.

____________________________________________________________________

 

**Diligence**

He knew Father was disappointed in him. So he did what they all did when they were troubled-he went to Nelyo.

Nelyo was sitting at his desk, piles of books stacked around him as he made notations on the parchment in front of him. He looked up at Pityo's knock on his open door and smiled at his little brother. "What is it, little one?"

"Are you busy, Nelyo?"

Nelyo leaned back. "Never too busy to talk to you. Come. What is it?" He motioned Pityo over.

He walked to Nelyo's desk, his eyes catching sight of Nelyo's neat, even script covering the parchment. "Father isn't happy with me," he whispered.

Nelyo's arm went around him. "And why do you think that, little one?"

"I heard him talking to my tutor. He was getting the evaluation on our progress and mine wasn't very good."

"Has he spoken to you about it?" Nelyo asked.

"No. He left for Grandfather's just after. But I know he will when he returns home," Pityo said, looking at the floor.

"You don't know that." Nelyo gently lifted his brother's chin so he could look at Pityo directly. "It might not be as bad as you expect."

Pityo looked up at his older brother's gentle silver eyes. Maybe that was true for Nelyo-he never seemed to disappoint anyone.

"Tell me of your lessons, Pityo. Why wasn't your report good?"

Pityo frowned. "I'm having trouble with the readings."

"Sarati or Tengwar?"

"Both," Pityo mumbled.

"Just the reading or the writing as well?" Nelyo asked.

"Both," Pityo wailed, throwing himself at Nelyo and burying his face in his brother's shoulder. Nelyo's arms came around him and he could feel his brother's hand rubbing gentle circles on his back.

"It's all right, little one. It's all right. Don't be too hard on yourself. It's wasn't easy for any of us at first."

"You know that's not true," Pityo objected. "Telvo isn't having any problems. It's just me."

"Tell me what's giving you difficulty."

It was hard to explain. Pityo didn't really know himself. He just couldn't seem to copy the letters right when he used the script. Reading in either script was just as challenging. He would think he had the right word only to realize after he had read it out loud to his tutor that he had not gotten it right at all.

"All of it," he mumbled into Nelyo's shirt. "I can't seem to ever write things correctly or say the right words when he makes me read aloud."

Nelyo gently shifted back so they were facing each other. "Can you show me?" he asked, sweeping aside his papers and books. He reached for a blank parchment. "Do you want to write something on your own or should I write something for you to copy?"

"Write something for me to copy," Pityo whispered. He watched Nelyo write out a passage, his script neat, even and flowing.

"There you go. Copy that." Nelyo stood up and motioned to Pityo to sit at the desk. He leaned over Pityo's shoulder to watch as he formed the letters.

His characters were crooked and smudged a bit; Nelyo noticed that right away. That was of no consequence-time and practice would solve that issue. But as he watched the words slowly form across the page he noticed a pattern to Pityo's mistakes. There it was again; Pityo had written a **_b_** for **_d_** above also. Nelyo narrowed his eyes as he scanned his brother's work. And there-he had put a **_q_** this time instead of a **_p._**

"That's enough, Pityo," he said, tapping the boy on the shoulder. "Let's try some reading now."

Nelyo looked at his shelf. He wanted something easy but all the books on his shelf would be too challenging for his purposes. He tapped Pityo on the shoulder. "Go get me one of the storybooks from your room."

He ran his hand through his hair and rubbed his forehead as he waited for Pityo to come back. He remembered one of his linguistics instructors commenting on something similar to this at one of his lectures-an issue with transposition of letters-he couldn't remember the exact reference though. He would have to see if he could find a time to meet with him this week.

Perhaps it would be easier for Pityo with letters in a book. Nelyo was proud of how precise his own letters were but maybe the printed ones would be easier to read than his script.

Pityo returned with his book. Nelyo sat next to him and placed the book in front of them, noting his brother's frown. "Let's try this one," he said, pointing to the first story. "Why don't you read this to me, Pityo?"

His brother's eyes grew wide. "Read it out loud, Nelyo?" His voice was trembling.

"Yes. Take your time and sound the words out if they don't look familiar. I'm here to help. I swear I have this one memorized-I think we've all read it countless times." He smiled at his little brother, trying to reassure him. It didn't seem to make a difference. Pityo still looked far too worried.

The reason became clear as he began to read. He read very slowly but what Nelyo noticed right away was that some of the words weren't quite the words on the page. Pityo would then pause, think about it, stare at the page and then sound out the word but more than once Nelyo noticed the word Pityo said was a transliteration of the word on the page.

He seemed to have particular difficulty with the word ' ** _was_** ', saying ' ** _saw_** ' more than once while reading the story. He seemed to pick up on his error after a few pages, realizing ' ** _saw_** ' didn't make any sense in the context.

He made it through the little story but Nelyo could tell the effort had frustrated him. He took the book back from Pityo and flipped through the pages. "Pityo, do you like this book?"

Pityo looked at him curiously. "I like it when you read it to me."

"Do you like to read it to yourself?"

Pityo shook his head. "No. It doesn't sound the same when I do it."

Nelyo nodded. "I think I have an idea why. Sometimes you switch the letters when you write-ones that look similar but sound different. I think you do something like that when you read as well."

"Does that mean I'll never be able to do it right?" Pityo asked, his eyes wide, the worry evident in his face.

"No, of course not! It just means that maybe the way your tutor is presenting it might not work for you, that's all." Nelyo smiled down at him. "One of my instructors mentioned something like this during one of his lectures. I'll try and find him this week and see if he has any suggestions for us." His face became more serious as he continued. "It might mean more time studying, Pityo. You will have to find time to work with me, if you want to get better at this."

"I will, Nelyo. I promise. I want to get better. I don't want to disappoint Father."

"It's not about disappointing Father, Pityo. You could never disappoint him. He loves you and you know that." Nelyo squeezed his brother's shoulder before he continued. "It's just that there is a whole world in books just waiting for you-I don't want you to miss the joy that comes with reading."

Nelyo kept his word. He spoke to the instructor and came home with a plan mapped out for Pityo. His eldest brother took Father aside after the evening meal that night; Pityo thought he must have spoken to him about it then. Pityo had seen a flash of frustration cross Father's face as Nelyo first started speaking to him but then something changed. Father's face brightened and he got that interested look Pityo knew well. He couldn't hear what they were saying but Father was rapidly questioning Nelyo. The back and forth went on for quite a while. Pityo was relieved Father seemed interested rather than irritated.

His observation was confirmed at bedtime. Father settled him in bed and stroked Pityo's hair gently off his face. He bent over him and spoke softly. "Nelyo told me what is going on, Pityo. I am sorry I was not aware of the issue. I will speak to your tutor tomorrow." He pressed a kiss to Pityo's forehead and then spoke again, even softer. "You must make time for Nelyo everyday, Pityafinwe. You must be diligent in this. I have your word?"

"I will, Father. I promise."

He was not a morning person but he made himself get up every day, before the mingling of the lights, to do the work Nelyo had laid out for him the night before. They would go over it together, every morning, before Nelyo left to work with Grandfather.

In the evening, while the others played at cards, or the word games Father loved, or listened to Kano sing, he and Nelyo would go upstairs and Pityo would read out loud to his older brother.

It took months of work and hours of their time but Nelyo's instructor had given him good advice.

And Nelyo was right-there was a whole world waiting for him in the pages of those books.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going with the non-Silm version of the twins here; the draft where one twin burns on the ships.  
> I believe it is Amrod who dies in this alternate take of Tolkien's and so I've chosen to use him for this story.


	7. Amras

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I think this was the most difficult one for me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am thinking of gluttony more as a voracious appetite for something, an addiction of sorts.
> 
> Temperance: Moderation or self-restraint. Voluntarily refraining from doing something

**Amras**

**Gluttony**

 

He had first tasted it so very long ago at the Mereth Aderthad. The Laiquendi had let him try a sip, late in the night by the bonfires, as the music had pounded around them; not the measured tones of his brother or that bard of Doriath. This was a pulsating wild music, the drumming matching his heartbeat initially but then spiraling faster and faster.

It had only been a sip that time but it was enough; the world had swirled into color around him—colors as bright as Tirion at the height of Laurelin’s brilliance. He had yearned to taste it again. Not for the flavor—it was too bitter and acrid—but for another glimpse of that brilliant light.

He roamed the lands often, too restless when he was at Himring with Maedhros, ill-at-ease in the comfortable halls of Caranthir, in Thargelion. It was better when he was ranging—he had enough to occupy his thoughts when he was in the wild. He did not dare let his mind drift as he did when the walls enclosed him and his thoughts turned as dark as the moonless nights.

  
It was on one of those rangings, many long years after the Mereth Aderthad, that he encountered a small patrol of Laiquendi in the woods. He had met one of their number at his uncle’s celebration so long ago. He took them up on the offer of hospitality and ventured to their settlement with them.

  
Later in the night, around the comfortable bonfire with his new acquaintances around him, the familiar scent of that elixir came to him.

  
“May I?” he asked, as the bottle passed among them.

  
“It is potent,” his companion warned. “We are well used to it; for some it brings dreams and visions, for others a sleepless slumber for the night. There are few of your people who tolerate it well.”

  
“I tolerated it just fine last time,” Amras said, reaching for the bottle.

  
He took more than a few sips this time and spent the rest of the evening sprawled on his back, watching the stars change colors and burst into cascades of light raining from the sky. There was a faint melody he caught in the air around him, one of Kano’s long forgotten lullabies written for him and his twin.

  
It was only a matter of trade, he decided. The Laiquendi were more than willing to take the dagger Curufin had made for him in exchange for a shipment of the elixir. They would deliver it when their next delegation visited Thargelion in a few weeks time.

  
He stayed close to the compound as the day the delegation was to arrive approached. He chafed at the confinement and inactivity but it wouldn’t do to have his items mixed in with those of Caranthir's.

  
The delegation arrived and he was gratified to recognize one of their number from his nights spent in their company in the forest. It was little work to bring the crate to his room unnoticed. He unsealed it and counted the six bottles there.

  
More than enough. He would be sparing with it. If nothing else, it helped him sleep. It had been centuries since Losgar but sleep had never come easily to him since then.  
It began with a sip at night. But the moments of brilliance passed far too quickly. A few sips more would not hurt, he thought, as the tapestries in his room began to undulate and move, the figures on them coming to life before his eyes.

  
Half a cup was certainly not an indulgence, he told himself, eyeing the four remaining bottles in the crate. He had more than enough to indulge a little.

  
He couldn’t remember when he began to drink it from the bottle, not even bothering to pour it in a glass anymore. The nights passed so quickly this way—it left him no time to think, to remember. It dulled the emptiness, that hollow ache that had never left him.

  
How could this be the last bottle, he asked himself, scrabbling unsuccessfully through the straw that had cushioned the glass bottles, not able to find another hiding there.

  
When was the delegation due again? He would have to ask Caranthir. How long had he been here in Thargelion? He could not remember the last time he had gone on a ranging or manned a patrol. Was it a few days? Maybe a week, he decided.

  
A knock on his door interrupted his musings. He hastily placed the bottle back in the crate and was just closing it when his brother swung the door open and walked in on him, the box still held in his hands.

  
“You can’t just walk in here,” Amras protested, as Caranthir strode across the stone floor to him, grabbing the crate out of his shaking hands. “That’s mine! What do you think you’re doing?” Amras lunged at his older brother, who deftly sidestepped him and handed the crate to Curufin. What was Curufin doing in his room?

  
Amras whirled towards the door, confusion on his face as Celegorm walked in, his faithful companion Huan at his side. “What is this?” Amras questioned, looking from face to face. “Why didn’t you tell me we were having a family reunion?” He glared at Caranthir. “When should I expect Maedhros and Maglor?"

  
“Not at all, if we get this sorted on our own,” Curufin said, setting the crate down on Amras’ desk and opening it, Celegorm peering over his shoulder as Caranthir blocked Amras with his body—arms crossed over his chest and matching his glare with one of his own.

  
“You were right,” Curufin told Caranthir as he sniffed at the bottle, open in his hand now. “It is that liquor the Laiquendi use.”

  
“I told you it was more than just a mood thing,” Caranthir growled, darting a look at Curufin over his shoulder. “I told you it sounded like the forest drink,” Celegorm added, leveling a glare of his own at Amras. “How much was in here?”

  
“I don’t see how that concerns you,” Amras said, lifting his chin defiantly.

  
“It affects us all when you are wandering about in a daze all day and drugging yourself to sleep at night,” Caranthir said. “Did you think I would not notice?”

  
“You exaggerate. I am not in a daze.”

  
“When was the last time you went on a patrol? Ranged in the woods?” Curufin asked, his sharp eyes pinned on Amras.

  
“I don’t know exactly when,” Amras answered, frantically thinking back for specifics. “But no more than a week, I’m sure.”

  
“Wrong,” Celegorm thundered, causing Huan to press himself closer to his companion’s leg. “It’s been over two months.”

  
“Two months? Do you really expect me to believe that? I would be climbing the walls of this fortress if had been more than two weeks! You know that.”

  
“I knew that. I don’t know anything now except that you have not left my keep in all this time but somehow you are always the first to meet the Laiquendi delegation when they arrive,” Caranthir said. “You’ve never graced me with your presence this long. Did you think I would not notice that?” There was more than irritation in his face, Amras realized. It was something he had not seen in his brother’s face in years. It was concern and . . . fear?

  
Amras glanced at Celegorm and Curufin. It was mirrored in their eyes as well. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mumbled. It couldn’t be two months, could it? What delegations? He had only met the one.

  
“The Laiquendi asked for you today. The delegation came and for once you were not there to meet them,” Caranthir said.

  
“What?”

  
“It seems you missed your delivery today. Their captain sought me out, to let me know they had something for you,” Caranthir continued.

  
Amras shook his head. This couldn’t be happening. He had only received the one crate.  
Caranthir crossed the room to open the closet door and Amras stepped back in shock. There couldn’t be that many bottles. It had only been the six. He counted two crates and a number of bottles strewn across the closet floor.

  
His head began to throb and he grabbed it with both hands. “I don’t understand.”  
Warm arms came around him and a furry face brushed against his leg as he found himself in Celegorm’s arms.

  
“It will be alright, little one. We will get you through this,” his brother stroked his hair gently. “It will be alright.”

 

**Temperance** :

“Don’t you hear what they are saying?” Pityo asked him.

  
“I’m not listening to them. They don’t matter,” Telvo answered.

  
“But they are saying things about Father. How can you just walk by?”

  
Telvo turned to face his brother. “They don’t know Father. We do. It doesn’t matter what they say about him.” He resumed walking towards their home.

  
“Of course it matters! Other people hear them talking that way and then they start saying it too and then it’s all over Tirion.” Pityo stomped along next to him, the outrage plain on his face.

  
“I don’t care what people like that say about Father. Do you really think if I stood up to them and told them what they are saying isn’t true that they would believe me? A son of Feanaro?” Telvo shook his head. “Of course they wouldn’t. So then what would be the point?”

  
“The point would be that you would be standing up for Father.”

  
“I am standing up for Father. I don’t need to get into a street fight with some loud mouth idiots to prove it,” Telvo said. “Listen. Do you really think it helps Father at all if we brawl in the streets with everyone who disagrees with him? It won’t.” He picked up his pace as they neared their home. “It will just make them more likely to believe what people say, if we behave like that. It will all reflect on him, anything we do.”

  
“Just like anything he does reflects on us,” Pityo said quietly.

  
“You don’t mean that. Father would never do anything to harm us.”

  
“I know that. But do you think he knows what they say to us, what they say loud enough for us to hear when we walk by?” Pityo asked.

  
“He wouldn’t care. The only opinions that matter to him are Grandfather and Mother,” Telvo answered. “I will not give any credit to this by acknowledging it and neither should you.”

  
“But doesn’t it make you angry? It makes me want to shout at them.” Pityo said, his eyebrows drawing together.

  
“Of course it makes me angry. But just because it makes me angry doesn’t mean I have to do something about it. Especially if doing something will actually make it worse. Just keep walking, Pityo. We can’t make it stop and we can only make it worse if we try to intervene.”  
“I don’t know how you do it.”

  
“It’s not about doing anything. It’s just about restraining myself from doing anything. That’s the difference.”


End file.
